


The Morning Star

by Eclipse_Tyrant



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dragon shifters, Fantasy, M/M, Muskets and cannons, Russian inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25583251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eclipse_Tyrant/pseuds/Eclipse_Tyrant
Summary: In the nation of Scari, rebellion against the ruling family has escalated to new heights. The Domeleys are an ancient family, capable of assuming the shape of dragons. For centuries, they have endured, but advancing technology threatens to render them useless in battle.Crown Prince Ivan has fallen, dealing a grievous blow to the Loyalist cause. His brother, Prince Jaren, is elevated to the position of Crown Prince.A spy for the Rebellion, Aethan, has infiltrated the Royal Palace. In a court of monsters in human shape, he must choose between his duty to his father and his moral compass.





	The Morning Star

**Author's Note:**

> A project I’ve been sitting on for a while. May continue if people like it and comment on it.

Centuries ago...

The Queen had a strained pregnancy. Her babe kicked and writhed, and any food she ate was unlikely to stay down long. The only food to stay was charred and raw meat. After long months of stress and pain, she finally gave birth. Her awful screams and curses were audible on the walls of the fortress, and guards on the walls made the warding sign. Midwife and Ecclesiastic alike left in horror, stained with black blood and smoke. As her howling reached a climax, the moon approached the sun.

Then it engulfed the light, briefly casting the land in shade. Two shrieks echoed, and one went silent. The King was no craven, but his son filled him with horror.

“Name him while he breathes,” an Ecclesiastic said in a hushed tone.

“Jaren,” he whispered. The boy, slick with inky blood, hissed and kicked with long black nails.  
No babe should have teeth, much less black ones. Awful wounds, like a map of the bones below the skin, were etched into him. Jaren’s very skin was steaming.

He was a demon-child, and demon-children never lived long.

But he lived. He endured, and gnawed at anything in sight. The days became weeks, weeks months, and months years. Jaren grew, and listened with silence to the whispered fear and gossip. He heard the rumors that he was the doom of the Realm.

He forged his own realm.

He took a wife.

He sired sons, and passed on his dreadful power.

And another Jaren, Third of his Name, was born two hundred years later.  
•••*•••

His eyes opened.

Jaren rolled out of bed, and yawned. The raw red seams outlining his bones sizzled, an occasional drop of black seeping like wax from a candle. 

The second son almost bothered to pull a shirt on, but decided against it. He needed to wash the dried ichor off soon. Jaren stretched as he walked to the window, glowing electrum eyes scanning the early dawn. Past the Palace walls, barely visible in the sunrise, pillars of smoke rose. As he watched a faint echo, like thunder, reached his ears. The lightbulbs flickered, and plaster rained from the ceiling as the blast arrived.

The Rebellion had been going since he was a child. Even before he’d proven a dragon, in fact. In recent months, the war front had pushed even closer to the Palace. Father had grown more harsh and hateful as well. The stress was eating him from within. 

“Boy! Bring up some hot water. I’m taking a bath!” Jaren shouted through the door.

At least Ivan had broken the Stalemate of Markon a week ago. The siege’s fall would demoralize the rebel’s foreign investors, and then Father would finally take scales for once and end it. The war would end, and he could finally leave the Palace and see the Realm.

Dragons never lost.

Dragons never gave up.

And Jaren was a dragon.

•••*•••

Aethan turned to leave after drawing the bath. The Domleys family enjoyed their privacy. 

“Stay,” Prince Jaren said. “I have an appetite for conversation this morning.”

That was something new. Still, he had a job. The prince might let slip something important to him.  
“Yes, Milord,” he said politely as the prince slipped into the boiling water. Jaren didn’t even redden in the heat, and flakes of black melted off his body. He wasn’t anything like a human, a real human. No human eyes were monochrome silver-gold. 

“So, how’s that mother of yours?”

“Fine,” Aethan said. In reality, his mother was long dead. Jaren, however, only knew what he’d been told. 

“That’s good to hear,” Jaren remarked. He stood up, near-boiling water dripping from the ugly rips marking off his bones. All dragons had them, to show their true form off even in human skin. 

Aethan thought that he’d look good without them.

•••*•••

Jaren picked at his breakfast, occasionally stealing glances at his siblings. Father loomed at the end of the table, eyes glowing black. The black gouges in his arms and across his hands smoked slightly, as they did when he was angry. 

That was always, now.

Father held his crown, a thorny band of iron, running a bleeding finger across the serrated blades. The Sword Crown was almost fuzzy-looking from a distance. Up close you could see the dried stains, sharp needles and tines. It was magic, according to the old tales, tempered in blood and forged in hellfire.

“Do you know how your great-great-grandsire forged a kingdom?”

They’d all heard the tale a thousand times, but Father was in a rare mood. They said nothing, not even sharp-tongued Mari. Father continued.

“He, the first Jaren, saw a disparate realm of men barely more than animals. The people of Scari were weak, feuding and pathetic. He was the son of the Sun Queen, a goddess, and his blood was good and pure. He burned the foolish mongrels who refused to bow, and the wisest of their inferior bloodline knelt. The first Jaren built this Imperial City on the ashes of their bones. And from the sword of their greatest warrior he made a crown. This crown,” the Czar said. It was a old story. 

Mother had always preferred the recitals of the Scari, their love songs and ballads. That was yet another difference between them. Father rarely told stories, and they were dull tales full of hellfire and death.

Ren, Jaren’s youngest sibling, yawned. Father frowned, eyes smoldering with barely concealed fury, and Jaren cringed. One of Father’s fingers spurted black as he pressed down sharply. 

“Oh,” Father said, before suddenly limping away from the table. The three siblings looked at each other.

Black, smoking ichor trickled from the tines of the crown. 

•••*•••

Jaren stalked down the hallways, heading towards the Courtyard. The sun was still low in the sky, and it was summer. A beautiful day to fly. 

Father only allowed him to fly when he was there. Once he’d tried to escape the Palace, only to be caught almost instantly. He didn’t try a second time. Jaren walked past the guards, and into the Courtyard. Men patrolled the walls with muskets in hand, not that it’d do any good against him.  
Father was not there. 

Jaren decided to return to his chambers, regretting the idea. Father was busy. The rebels were stressful, and he had no time to watch him. He pushed open the door to his chambers and collapsed onto his bed. He was tired of being cooped up within these walls. He’d never been past the horizon, never seen the wonders of the world.  
He hummed a song Mother sung to him once.

He had no tune, but it made him feel better. 

•••*•••

Aethan stood just out the door, listening to the prince hum. He’d never heard that song before, but it sounded nice. Like something his Mother would sing. The song came to an end, and he could hear footsteps.

And... was that crying? Surely not. What did he have to cry about? Jaren hadn’t ever known hunger, or fear. He’d never been forced to fight for his life. Aethan had known all those things from childhood.

He didn’t know what made him knock.

“Hello? I heard you,” he said awkwardly. Jaren sniffed. 

“Come in.”

Aethan stepped into the room, and stood by the door.

“You can sit here, if you want,” he said. Aethan sat a few feet away, looking out the window.

“My Father is tired,” Jaren said. “You agree?” Aethan nodded. 

“He’s got a war to win. It’s improving, and soon the rebels will be crushed. Then I’ll leave here,” Jaren continued. Aethan mulled that over.

“Why aren’t you and your brother fighting? Don’t you need every dragon available?” Jaren sighed.  
“Father doesn’t want us to die. It’s dangerous, and Ren is too young to really fight and kill. I could, though. I could’ve been at Markon with my brother. Just because he’s older doesn’t make me useless. Father doesn’t care. I sometimes think he just wants to keep us under his thumb.” 

“I know what you’re feeling,” Aethan said. “My father’s the same way.” That was true.

“That’s something we have in common,” Jaren said with a smile.

•••*•••

Miles away...

The fortress was built to withstand the siege weapons of old, trebuchets and battering rams. Cannons were not taken into account.  
Orbs of metal buried into the rock walls, sending shards of stone hurling into the defenders. Columns of smoke rose with the screams of the dying, as a volley of lead streaking towards the men and horses charging across the fields. They’d already become a mire of blood and mud, heaps of corpses rotting in the summer sun.

More bodies fell, screams and gurgles their last words.

Another scream resounded. A different kind of scream. A dragon-shriek.

The emerald wings trailed embers, clanging like plated steel as they beat. Prince Ivan had come, at last. The attackers shouted in defiance of the fortress, and then took cover.

Blunt jaws creaked open, a breath whining as breath rushed in. Hidden furnaces lit up the plated armor, virescent flames building up into a second sun. Glaucous eyes flared, and there was light.  
A liquid inferno poured over the battered walls, cannons and guns glowing white and melting into fluid metal. Men died in moments, seared to dust in seconds. The unlucky breathed in the fumes, collapsing as their lungs bled and skin melted off their bones.

Ivan soared over the reddening clouds of hot ash, and circled the ruins. Broad wings extended, as two muscular legs were tucked behind his armored chest. A stiff tail counterbalanced his head and neck. He was lean and compact, strong and young.  
Suddenly a blast tore through a gap between his armor, clean through the throat.

The prince spat molten blood, and fell. His wings flailed, jaws snapping in confusion as he convulsed. He was invincible. Cannons glanced off his armor. Bullets were laughable. 

What was happening? Why was he falling? He tried to speak, to ask the Demiurge why, forgetting his shape.

He slammed into the ground, tumbling and tearing up the mud as hollow bones broke. At last he came to a stop, fire gushing from half a dozen wounds. His lidless, viridescent eyes went dark, and Ivan died in the bloody field of a battle already won.  
After several hours, after the Loyalists were routed, a man named Jaek strode up to the corpse. His cold blue eyes flicked over the dragon. Jaek’s son would be impressed. 

“Guess that makes me a dragonslayer, Aethan,” he said to himself. 

He’d bought the gun at an exorbitant price from the Eastern Free Republic. It had taken a team of oxen to drag it here, but it had paid for itself in the end. Now he could finally end the lives of the filthy demons. No more man eating Czars. No more tyranny. 

The nation would be free at last.

•••*•••

When Jaren heard the news, he bolted between the guards. Anyone who tried to stop him was hurled aside with broken bones, smoke streaming behind him. The doors swung open, and Jaren threw his arms out.

The sound of shattering and grinding bones was heard, the seams etched in his skin tearing. Lightning and fire burst, and dark silver plates with lighter highlights armored him. The pain was well worth it.

He took flight, the roar of beating wings and the howling winds still not loud enough to drown out Father’s bellow of fury. Smoke and shadow rose, wings straining to lift his bulk. Jaren was young and slow, and Father had fought tooth and nail since childhood for his place. 

Jaren soared free, swooping above the Capital. Children pointed, running from his shadow. Cars honked, small accidents occurring all over the city. Camera flashbulbs ignited, capturing his image. In seconds, he was beyond the river, soaring over open country. 

Father caught him, driving him into the ground with a stamp. His claws pinned his head down, jagged jaws creaking open. An uncertain, black-and-white glow flickered deep within. Father tried to summon flames, only managing a few weak sparks and drool. 

He roared in fury, the sound thundering and burning in Jaren’s skull.

Then his dull black jaws bit down on his son’s face, and his world dissolved into pain.

•••*•••

Jaren was bundled back to the Palace, and confined to his quarters. Nobody saw him, and the only evidence that he existed was his eaten meals. A doctor or two, selected for their discreet nature, were brought in to ensure his health.

Aethan scrounged through his limited contacts, only finding that the Prince had fought his father. That information was covertly passed on to the Resistance, along with the rest of the information he’d gathered. Aethan couldn’t be sure it would reach his father, but that was a risk he needed to take. 

After a week, he decided to try to talk to the Prince again. His knock was unanswered for a minute.  
“Come in,” Jaren said hoarsely. Aethan stepped through the door, and stopped. Jaren’s left eye, and a good portion of his face, was wrapped in a bandage. Spots of boiling ichor soaked through, burning the white gauze. The dragons healed swiftly compared to humans, but Aethan has heard of how they could be scarred. A curl of steam rose from his left.

“I wanted to see how you were,” Aethan said awkwardly. Jaren scoffed.

“Sure.” 

Aethan was silent. 

“How are you?” Aethan eventually asked.

“Scarred and burned,” Jaren snapped. “Is that all you wanted? To gawk at a dragon with half his face bitten off? Even little Ren was kinder than that.” 

“That’s not why I came!” Aethan protested. “I wanted...”

“Wanted? Wanted what?” Jaren asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll go.” Jaren scowled.

“Good. If you come back, be ready. I’m not wearing this forever.”

Aethan walked out, closing the door behind him.  
What am I doing? he asked himself. He had no answer.


End file.
